


As the Long, Long Nights Begin

by ladymacbeth99



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991)
Genre: AU, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fairy Tale Curses, Non-Graphic Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-14 03:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11199114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymacbeth99/pseuds/ladymacbeth99
Summary: After the fight with Gaston, Belle arrives just in time to save the Beast's life-but too late to break the spell. Can they manage to find some happiness anyway?





	1. Chapter 1

The Beast knew he was dying.

Moments ago, the knife wound in his back burned with excruciating pain. He had felt every laborious beat of his heart, his body fighting rather perversely to keep him alive while his spirit had surrendered long ago. He had felt the cold hard stone of the balcony beneath him, though Belle tried to cradle his head. As if being uncomfortable was of any consequence while he bled to death in her arms.

But now—he didn’t feel anything. Not cold, or pain, or even fear. The only sensation was the faint warmth of Belle’s tiny, delicate hands as she held one of his massive uncouth paws in them.

“Maybe—maybe it’s better this way,” he told her, gasping a little for breath. He couldn’t understand the horror and denial in her eyes. _It’s alright, Belle_ , he wanted to say, but speaking was suddenly difficult. _Don’t cry. I’m just grateful not to die alone._ “At least I got to see you one last time.”

He wanted to keep himself alert until the very end, to look into those warm brown eyes—ones that saw him without disgust or fear—the eyes of a friend. But he couldn’t keep himself awake any longer. His eyes slid closed, wanting so badly just to sleep.

“No, please. Please don’t leave me…I love you.”

The words seemed to come to him from a great distance. But even from the void that he was slipping into, he registered dimly that these were the words he’d been waiting to hear. The impossible words.

He’d felt so wretchedly exhausted and ready to accept death, as if seeing Belle’s face was the only thing he needed to feel complete. But now—if these words were really true—then there was a point to everything, there was a reason to fight. There was something to lose.

He could no longer hear the rain softly falling around them.

 _No, no, no, I want to stay with you_ , he tried to say. He tried to reach for her, to touch her cheek and tell her everything would be alright, but he was paralyzed.

Just as he started to struggle to stay conscious, the darkness claimed him completely, and he heard nothing more.

The weightless nothingness seemed to last forever.

Was this death? Did Beasts even have souls? Perhaps that was why he was trapped here in some sort of limbo—the afterlife was only for humans. But at least he had memories to treasure to keep him company.

Belle had come back. She came back to warn him of the danger, and had reached for him so tenderly. And she wept for him as he lay dying. He could hold onto that last image of her—long brown hair loose and disheveled in the rain, trying to keep a brave face and tell him that everything was going to be alright. But he wasn’t afraid, not even of death. Not if he was with her.

* * *

Eventually there was a light in the darkness. It was blurry and faint, but warm and golden, like firelight.

He blinked, and the light grew clearer. Shapes formed before him—no, a single shape, a human silhouette bending over him.

He no longer felt weightless; in fact, he was aware of heavy limbs and numb fingertips and something soft beneath him. He seemed to be lying on his side. When he tried to move, he realized why and regretted it: that burning, searing pain at the small of his back. He couldn’t quite suppress a groan.

“Try not to move. You might tear your stitches.”

He knew that voice. He forced himself to focus. It was hard to see, either because he was still disoriented or because the candlelight was dim—but he knew those soft brown eyes staring back at him.

“Belle,” he breathed. “You’re here. Then I’m…not dead?”

She laughed softly. “You’re always so dramatic,” she said, but her voice was fond. “You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

He searched her face hungrily. There was none of the fear or dread or kind lies, like the last time she had promised him that. In fact, her eyes showed exhaustion and profound relief.

Without moving his head, he couldn’t see much of their surroundings, except for the bedside table behind Belle, which was stacked with books and rolls of bandages and small vials. There was a soft down quilt tucked around him, embroidered in gold thread with a floral design. He suspected that they were in her old room in the castle.

He noticed that she was dressed differently—in that pale green gown he remembered from the day he’d shown her the library, the one that made her brown eyes look hazel—so he guessed some time had passed. He tried to remember how long ago he had almost died, but his head throbbed too much.

“What day is it today, Belle?”

“The fifth of January.”

A humorless laugh escaped his lips before he could suppress it. He was twenty-one years old now. These claws and fangs were permanently a part of him, and there was no undoing it.

“How long have I been…?”

“Two days,” she said, her eyes tightening. “But I finally got the bleeding stopped.”

“Ah.” That explained the pain. “So all that…all that really happened? I got stabbed in the back?”

“Yes.”

“And you saved me.”

He reached for her hand. For once, his felt feeble, and hers impossibly strong. Now that he was more awake, every muscle in his body seemed to ache, and he doubted he could lift his head up from the pillow even if Belle would allow him to try.

“So you stitched up my wounds—how did you learn how to do that? Have you been a physician all the time, and I never knew it?”

“After all the accidents my father’s gotten into in his workshop, believe me, I had to learn how to patch him up.”

“Hmm. I guess that makes sense.” He frowned. He hadn’t thought he could admire her any more than he already did. “But how did you even get me here?” Surely her tiny frame would’ve been crushed under his dead weight—he had to be at least five times her size.

“I had plenty of help. But it was still…complicated.” She chuckled a little, and the Beast was confronted with an absurd image of dozens of enchanted objects helping her drag him up the stairs.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, but he couldn’t help but grin at the ridiculous thought.

But then Belle’s amusement faded, and her downcast eyes became pensive.

“You scared me, for a while there,” she confessed in a hollow voice, tracing the embroidery on the blanket as she spoke. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

“We monsters are pretty hard to kill.”

“Don’t say that. I know you’re teasing, but…please don’t.” Her voice was thick, as if it hurt to hear him call himself that.

With some difficulty, he reached up and stroked her cheek once carefully. “I’m sorry for putting you through all that worry,” he said, sighing. “You look so tired.”

“Why didn’t you fight back?” she demanded suddenly.

He winced at her accusatory tone, but he couldn’t understand the fury flashing in her eyes. “What are you—?”

“You _know_ what I’m talking about,” she said, folding her arms and glaring. “When the mob was at your door. When Gaston had his bow trained on you. Why didn’t you fight back?” Angry tears had begun to spill over. “I know you’re no killer, but you could have at least _defended_ yourself. Why?”

“You’re not going to like the answer,” he warned her. She raised an eyebrow, stiffly waiting for a complete response. He sighed heavily. “I…I didn’t think I would ever see you again. So I just…didn’t see the point. I thought this was a fitting end to the story. But then I saw you’d come back, and I—”

She shook her head, as if hoping to deny what she’d just heard. More tears spilled from her closed eyes.

The Beast had contemplated his own death many times over these long, dark years of despair. He was too cowardly to actively seek out an end—after all, he had been taught that self-destruction was a mortal sin—but the errant thought crossed his mind, again and again, how easy it would be to let himself fall from the ramparts of the castle. How poetically appropriate, since he was a creature forever fallen from grace. Maybe his death would even set the servants free of the curse, maybe it would be the sacrifice to appease the Enchantress. At the very least, they would be happier without his melancholy, sulking presence haunting the castle.

Something had always stopped him from making these plans any more concrete. Something always distracted him—like Mrs. Potts bursting into tell him, full of false cheeriness, that supper was ready, and that he really shouldn’t keep watching that rose, it wasn’t going to do any good—and then when he was given an opportunity to think it over with a clearer mind, he couldn’t bring himself to give up. There was some hope. There was a way to break the spell, a faint pinprick of dawn at the dark horizon.

It had never occurred to him that someone might _miss_ him. But here she was, crying at the thought of his death, scolding him for letting it happen.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry for everything. I guess it was a stupid thing to do. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I didn’t think…”

“You _have_ to have some other reason to live besides me,” she said. “But we’ll talk more about this later. We’ve got…a lot of things to talk about right now.”

She was still glaring at him through her tears, but her anger was beautiful, because it meant she _cared_ , she really cared, she wanted him to be alright, no matter how unworthy he was.

Suddenly desperate to lighten the mood, he said, “You’re right, we do. Who _was_ that Gaston fellow, anyways? Friend of yours?”

She snorted, seeming to appreciate his attempt at humor. “I wouldn’t exactly say that. He, uh, proposed to me before I came here.”

The Beast froze.

“I can’t say he _asked_ me to marry him, though, because that implies he had any doubts about whether I would say yes. But I think he got the message when I threw him out of my house,” she explained nonchalantly.

He laughed with her, relieved. “I wish I could have seen that,” he mused.

She smiled ruefully. “How much do you remember about what happened two days ago?”

“It’s a little fuzzy…I remember it was raining. I remember you came back. I remember fighting on the battlements. After that…I’m not sure how much was real, and what I just dreamed up.”

They looked at each other a moment with bated breath, waiting for the other to speak first. They both knew what he was referring to.

“Belle…did you really…did you really say…”

“Yes.” Her voice shook. “And I meant it.” She took a deep breath. “I love you.”

He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until he exhaled in a sigh. He reached out and touched her cheek—her face was so tiny and delicate compared to his massive paw.

“You know how much I adore you, Belle. Don’t you?”

“I think I have some idea,” she said wryly.

He had imagined confessing his feelings so many times. He’d come close, that night in the ballroom. It would have been far more romantic in that setting, with the music and candlelight and the cool night air, both of them flushed from dancing and their hearts racing. He’d imagined it would be such a monumental moment, that there would be fireworks and magic and that she would see him as the prince he once had been.

But this was quiet and comparatively humble. It was just two old dear friends, who had been through so much together, admitting that they were so much more.

And there was more magic in this intimate domestic moment than he felt there would have been, if he had told her that night under the stars. This woman, this fiercely intelligent, brave, stubborn, reckless, curious, dreamy, beautiful young woman—she loved him.

Love wasn’t blind for them. She had seen his flaws, his fears, his weaknesses more clearly than anyone, but she saw more than that, too. She saw something in him worth protecting, worth saving.

She hadn’t even known there was ever a chance that they could live a normal life together. How could he tell her that now, when it would break her heart, knowing what might’ve been?

“I—I wish I could be more for you, Belle,” he admitted in a whisper, but she put her finger to his lips to silence him.

“You’re more than enough.” She touched her forehead to his, closing her eyes. “Please, never doubt that.”


	2. Chapter 2

Two days ago, the servants had seen the last petal fall from the rose, its faint, eerie glow extinguished forever. The stem had immediately crumbled into ashes on the table.

“Well. I suppose that’s that,” Cogsworth had said, his voice quivering slightly. Then he had turned to Mrs. Potts and asked, “Do you feel any different? Now that it’s permanent?”

And she hadn’t, then. She had still been too numb to process what it meant, being stuck in this form forever. She had distracted herself with the urgent matter at hand—saving the master’s life—because she couldn’t bear to contemplate all the implications.

But two days had gone by, and the master was through the danger. Now she could no longer ignore the reality looming before her.

Many times over the past decade, she had been secretly grateful that her husband had died before all this madness happened. Perhaps that was a wicked thought, but at least her dear Henri had never had to see the curse. His soul was at peace, while hers was trapped in this cold, hard, lifeless _thing_.

Henri had always been optimistic in the face of dire circumstances, even occasionally to the point of seeming obliviousness. He had been one of the palace gardeners when they married, and she still remembered the day when rabbits had utterly destroyed his pristine flowerbeds. Instead of cursing and groaning like the other gardeners, he had simply picked up his shovel again, sighed breezily, and said, “Afraid I won’t be home in time for supper tonight, love.” He seemed to merely shrug wryly at setbacks.

How she wished she could have some of his determination right now. After all they’d endured already, she didn’t feel strong for persevering—she felt terribly brittle, as likely to shatter as her china surface.

Chip had inherited his father’s sunny demeanor, and she was grateful for that. It had kept her sane for a good part of these ten dark years.

When it finally sank in that the curse would never break, she thought she would feel grief and sadness. Instead, she felt an unexpected surge of _anger_. It was a foreign, uncomfortable emotion for her. She didn’t know what to do with it. She was growing more and more afraid she would unthinkingly lash out at someone.

She was angry with the Enchantress, for her twisted sense of justice. She was angry with Cogsworth and Lumiére, for expecting her to remain the placid voice of reason, when they didn’t have as much to lose as she did. She was angry at the universe, at God, for letting such a terrible fate befall innocent bystanders. Angry at the spoiled brat of a prince who had offended a witch and doomed them all in the process.

She was even—ashamed though she was to admit it—a little angry at the innocent maiden who was just a few minutes too late to save them.

The servants had heard Belle utter those fateful words. _Please don’t leave me. I love you._ They were just a whisper in the storm, but they might as well have echoed throughout the castle grounds. But the rose was already crumbled into dust.

It wasn’t fair to blame poor Belle, and Mrs. Potts despised herself for even thinking such a thing for a moment. But they had been _so close_.

The frustration and rage welling up felt like a monster growing inside her, and she hated it. If this curse had only affected her, she could have accepted it eventually with patience and grace. But Chip. Her only child had no future, and she could do nothing about it.

When she finally acknowledged her anger to herself, she managed to untangle the root of it, the true object of it.

She wasn’t just thinking of her own little boy. In her mind’s eye, she saw another boy she loved almost as much: a motherless child with bright blue eyes, who used to sneak into the kitchen to watch her work, who would beg to lick the spoon when she made a cake, who was starved for affection and received none from his despotic father. Who flinched at loud noises and learned to hide his tears from adults, lest he be scolded and mocked for being soft. Was it any wonder that the boy had become hard and temperamental?

_Sweet little Adam. I should have protected him. I should have done more._

Mrs. Potts was angry with herself, she realized.

Given that she was just made of porcelain and paint, she was not actually able to cry. But now, how she wished she could shed a few healing tears, so that her heartbreak could at least have some release.

* * *

The master was growing stronger under Belle’s watchful care. Mrs. Potts spent much of her day boiling water for when the bandages needed to be changed and the wound cleaned, and as she sat on the bedside table, she couldn’t help but observe the couple. It was so strange, to see the gigantic, menacing Beast speak so softly and tenderly to Belle, to look at her with such innocent wonder, to touch her so carefully and reverently.

 _Now there’s the Adam I know_ , Mrs. Potts thought to herself. _He was still in there all along, and she brought him back to us._

Belle, meanwhile, was unafraid to flippantly tease the master, and didn’t flinch at the strangeness of his claws when they ran through her hair. They might make a peculiar-looking pair, but their interaction was natural and easy and comfortable, almost like an old married couple. The fondness and tenderness in her gaze as she brought a glass of water to his lips—Mrs. Potts had no doubt, Belle had spoken the truth. She loved him.

It was just too late for it to change anything.

* * *

“We were _so close_ ,” Lumiére moaned for what seemed like the umpteenth time.

The palace kitchens had become a gathering place for the servants to vent their grievances, but Cogsworth was already growing irritated with his coworkers’ never-ending chorus of woe. After all, did they think he particularly enjoyed being a mantle clock? And yet _he_ never let his disappointment overwhelm him enough to distract him from his duties.

After taking inventory in the pantry (something he did only out of habit, because the shelves magically replenished themselves after every meal), he busied himself with checking the silverware for tarnish. Unfortunately, this meant he couldn’t help but overhear the nearby conversations.

At least the staff had the good sense to only gossip in here, by the bubbling saucepans and glowing ovens, where their guests were unlikely to intrude uninvited. It wouldn’t do at all for Belle and Maurice to overhear these conversations.

Lumiére and his paramour, Babette, were rehashing their misery this evening, and Cogsworth had heard quite enough already.

“I shall never get my figure back now. I shall always be this ridiculous feathered thing!” Babette cried, sounding mortified.

“Ma chérie, you know that doesn’t matter. I shall love you always, no matter what you look like.”

“But what I would give to embrace you one more time, mon amour.”

Cogsworth rolled his eyes. Love seemed to be such an ephemeral, unreliable thing, and he had no patience for it at the moment. Not after the way it had failed them all.

He wanted to resent that upstart peasant girl for being a minute slow with her epiphany, but he couldn’t. Almost from the day she had arrived here, begging for her father’s freedom, Cogsworth had been powerless to resist’s Belle’s charm. Something about her manner was elegant yet unassuming, good-humored and kind—uncannily reminding him of his late mistress, and he couldn’t help but feel similar admiration for her.

Instead, he would channel his resentment toward the proper target: that blasted Enchantress who had to be oh so pedantic about the curse’s stipulations. After all, hadn’t the master learned the lesson she’d supposedly intended him to? Wasn’t that enough for her? Did they all have to keep suffering because of a technicality?

Since he couldn’t express his feelings directly to the witch’s face (and given the opportunity, his courage would likely fail him), he could take it out on Lumiére.

“If it had just been a moment sooner—”

“Oh Lumiére, enough,” Cogsworth snapped. “You’ve said it about three dozen times, but wishing won’t change anything.”

The lovers goggled at him. If he had been human, he would have flushed under their surprised looks, but instead all he could feel was the uncomfortable tightening of screws and gears.

“Forgive me if that seems harsh, but there’s no use in pining after a future we can’t have. We may as well get used to the way things are.”

Their situation was, at least, better than those first few ghastly years. Had they all forgotten? Bad enough, trying to run a household and keep his underlings from falling into hysteria, all while clumsily familiarizing himself with this new form. He supposed he was fortunate to still have arms of a sort, even if he was deprived of opposable thumbs.

But the young master—only a boy of eleven, transformed suddenly into a nightmarish creature—he had been terrified out of his mind. He tried to disguise it with anger and petulance, sulkily rejecting every attempt they made to cheer him up and remind him that it wasn’t so bad, that there was still plenty of time.

But Cogsworth had noticed the way the Beast had flinched at the sight of his own shadow. There was nothing to say that would comfort him, nothing that didn’t sound hollow and feeble.

At least now Cogsworth could manage. He had adapted to his size and the stiff, mechanical movement. And they had all grown used to the master’s frightening visage, and no longer recoiled at his approach.

Didn’t they all remember how much harder it had been, before? Didn’t they realize it could be so much worse?

Lumiére opened his mouth, no doubt for an acerbic retort, but he was unexpectedly cut off by Mrs. Potts, who had been gloomily washing up in the sink nearby.

“Cogsworth is right,” she said with a heavy sigh. Gone was the usual brisk, chipper tone; she sounded exhausted. “What’s done is done, and there’s no sense grumbling about it. We’ve all got to do the best we can with what we’ve been given.”

“ _Thank_ you, Mrs. Potts. An excellent point.” Cogsworth felt validated by her agreement. “We must all carry on as usual.”

Babette scoffed. “That is easy for _you_ to say—what did you have to lose? You have no family, no lovers, no children like Mrs. Potts. Some of us had lives before that we would like to have back!”

Cogsworth blinked a few times, stunned. There was a brief pause, in which she seemed to realize how harsh her sudden outburst had sounded.

“I’m sorry, I…” She fled the room without another word.

“She does not mean it, mon ami,” Lumiére muttered. “She has been taking it very hard. I will talk to her.”

He hesitated, then rested a candlestick on Cogsworth’s metallic arm, as if he were clapping him on the shoulder. It wasn’t as reassuring as real human warmth might have been, but the meaning behind the gesture was clear all the same.

“It isn’t true, Cogsworth. You do have a family. You know that, don’t you?”

Perhaps it was just as well that a mantle clock couldn’t flush with emotion. It was embarrassing enough that Cogsworth could only sputter incoherently until Lumiére left the room.

The maître d’ could be exasperating at times—attention-seeking and frivolous and too spontaneous to neatly fit into Cogsworth’s strictly regimented life—but they had been through so much together. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to shake the man’s hand and thank him for standing by his side all these years.

But the moment had passed. And neither of them had hands.

Why must it be so difficult to put one’s feelings into words?

He avoided Mrs. Potts’s gaze as she finished washing the other dishes, but he thought he heard her mutter under her breath, “It’s about time he said it.”

Suddenly desperate for a change in conversation, Cogsworth remarked, “I hear the master is awake at last. How is he?”

“Still weak. He lost a great deal of blood. But he’s on the mend.”

Cogsworth shuddered. He would never forget the mess of crimson bedsheets as Belle tried to stitch up the gaping wound from the jagged hunting knife. It would have made him retch, if he had had a stomach to upset. But Belle’s hands hadn’t even shaken. Love and desperation seemed to give her courage, and he admired her all the more for that.

“I haven’t managed to speak to him alone yet,” Mrs. Potts continued. “I don’t think he wants her to be suspicious that we’re keeping something from her. She’s a sharp girl, though, and it’s not as though the master’s ever been a very good liar.”

“So he hasn’t told her about the curse yet?”

“Can’t say I blame him. It’ll probably break the poor dear’s heart, knowing she was too late to help.”

To Cogsworth’s surprise, he could find it in him to pity Belle a little, as Mrs. Potts seemed to. He couldn’t imagine the guilt she would experience, when she understood how many hopes she had unknowingly dashed. And even though they didn’t blame her, even though they were grateful that she had at least brought some life back into this household, that would be poor comfort to her.

“I still say we ought to have explained it all to her from the start,” he huffed. “She would have wanted to help us.”

“Oh, Cogsworth. Love has to happen on its own, it can’t be forced,” she said, shaking her head.

“Well, as you say, the master has _never_ been good at deception.” Cogsworth vividly remembered a mischievous little prince that used to steal sweets from the pantry, and even the innocence of his dimples and wide blue eyes was never enough to fool the majordomo. “He can’t honestly expect to hide the truth from her for the rest of their lives. If he didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve all the time, I would say it’s best to keep quiet about the whole thing, but—”

“If they are trying to have some kind of life together,” Mrs. Potts said slowly, “it has to start with honesty. Even if the truth is painful.”

She no longer seemed to be speaking to Cogsworth: there was a far-off look in her eyes, contemplating something very hard.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Potts?” he asked, as gently as he could. He had not heard the matronly housekeeper utter a single complaint since the spell became permanent, but she certainly hadn’t been acting like herself, either.

“I’ll be fine. I just need to have a talk with my son, that’s all. And it isn’t going to be easy.”

Cogsworth watched her head for the butler’s pantry, where the china cabinets were located. His heart sank. In all the confusion and bickering between the adults, he had completely forgotten about Chip.

* * *

Mrs. Potts took a deep breath to steel her nerves before rounding the corner. She had asked Chip to stay in his cupboard, explaining that the master had gotten very hurt and the grown-ups needed to mend his wounds, and so he needed to keep out of the way for a little while. He had to be very claustrophobic by now.

Just as she expected, Chip was chattering a mile a minute the instant she opened the cupboard door.

“Mama, am I going to have a real birthday this year?” He bounced excitedly in his saucer. “With a cake and everything? Can I have chocolate? Please?”

“Chip, dear.” She could hardly force the words out, when she knew they would destroy the exuberance and hope that had kept her son happy all these years. But she couldn’t lie to him forever. “That’s not going to happen this year. I’m afraid it’s not going to happen at all.”

Chip visibly drooped. “But…how come? I thought you said the spell was going to break.”

“I said it _might_ , sweetheart,” she said, unable to keep her voice entirely steady. If only she’d never said a word to him, if only she hadn’t raised his hopes.

“So I’m always going to be a teacup?” he said in a small voice.

She would have given anything at that moment to be able to scoop her son up into her arms and squeeze him tight, the way she used to whenever he had a nightmare or had scraped his knees while climbing trees. Words could only do so much to comfort a child—they needed to be held to feel safe. The best she could do was scoot closer to him and lean forward so their handles clinked together. It was a poor substitute for a mother’s embrace.

Chip sniffed, seeming to understand what she meant by the gesture. “Are you going to be okay, Mama?”

“Of course, dear heart, why would you—” Her voice caught and she couldn’t finish.

“Don’t be sad, Mama. I don’t mind being a teacup. I mean, I wish I could have a birthday cake and climb trees and grow a little taller, but it’s okay. There are nice things about being a teacup. I don’t get sick anymore. And not getting bigger means I won’t have to move away and leave you alone, ever.”

Chip’s attempts to cheer her up broke the floodgate. There were no real tears, but she still gasped for breath as if she were sobbing desperately. She had never wanted her child to see her this discomposed, but she couldn’t hold it back any longer.

“There, there, Mama, it’s alright to cry.”

She almost smiled, hearing him parrot what she had often told him. She often forgot Chip was not quite as fragile as his delicate porcelain shape would suggest. His mind was still more or less as innocent and simple as any six-year-old, but these ten years had changed him in subtle ways: he was more watchful, more insightful, more resilient.

“We can be happy again, can’t we?”

“I am, Chip,” she managed to choke. “I’m happy to be blessed with such a sweet and kindhearted little boy.”

He stayed near her until she had calmed down at last, even though his eyes were growing heavy with sleep. It was a small mercy, she thought, that even though they weren’t truly alive anymore, they could still escape to the oblivion of sleep. Perhaps in his dreams Chip could still run and play outside as a real little boy.

“Mama, could you sing me to sleep?” he asked as he settled into the cupboard for the night.

This, at least, was something she could still do for him. “Of course, dear. Of course.”


	3. Chapter 3

In Belle’s dreams, the Beast was never safe.

Tonight, he was on the highest tower of the castle, surrounded by a pack of snarling wolves. She stood on a balcony off the East Wing, able to look out across the rooftops and see the fight through the heavy rain, but too far to reach him. She tried calling out to him but, in that frustrating way dreams have, couldn’t make a sound.

Lightning flickered. He was fighting ferociously—through her terror, she felt a twinge of awe—but the wolves just seemed to be multiplying. Every time a wolf latched its teeth into him, she felt a sting of pain in her shoulder, as if she were the one injured. When she looked down, she realized she was indeed covered with blood. Every blow meant for him was killing her, too.

She awoke in a cold sweat, shaking.

The greyish pre-dawn light seeping through her curtains was enough to distinguish the Beast’s sleeping form in her bed. She calmed herself by watching his chest rise and fall, listening to the low rumble of his snores. He was alive. He was alright. He was right here with her. Eventually, her own breathing slowed to match his.

Since the injured Beast had appropriated her bed for the past three days, Belle had slept on her windowseat. The oversized down mattress of that bed was overwhelmingly luxurious anyway—the simple thin cushion on the windowseat felt more familiar.

She could’ve moved into another bedroom in this wing of the castle, but truthfully she wanted to stay close to him.

 _I’m just being silly_ , she thought. _These nightmares are just nonsense. I don’t know why they bother me so much._

Deep down, she knew this to be a lie: three days ago, she had learned just how much pain it would cause her to lose him. And it haunted her.

Still, there was no sense dwelling on what might have happened, or tormenting herself with imagined scenarios. She forced herself to sit up and peered around the heavy curtains.

She suppressed a groan: a light dusting of snow had fallen on the sleepy castle grounds. The past few days had almost led her to hope for an early spring, as it had been unseasonably warm, and the rain had washed away the muddy snow. She had even begun to daydream about seeing the overgrown gardens in bloom.

But she supposed that was a little unreasonable to hope for, and she would have to content herself with the beauty of the swirling frost creeping across her window.

Though her blankets were soft and inviting, Belle yanked them off and threw a shawl around her shoulders. She had always been an early riser.

Back in the village, everyone’s days began at sunrise, because there was work to be done whenever there was daylight—feeding livestock, milking cows, collecting eggs, baking bread. Belle’s favorite time of day was just before dawn. She would take a walk in the fields around their cottage, the dew soaking through her boots, sometimes squinting in the dim light to reread a favorite story, other times just breathing in the cool, quiet air and waiting for the first birdsong of the day. It was the only time she ever felt she had true privacy, because the world was still sleeping. There were no scornful eyes watching her.

But now she lived in another world. At the castle, she didn’t have to hide, and she didn’t have to worry about people whispering behind her back.

Still, some habits were too ingrained to break. She was guaranteed to have a few hours of solitude today. The Beast was _not_ a morning person. At all.

Before she tiptoed out of the room, one last backward glance told her that Madame Garderobe was awake, for she silently waved a good morning from her dark corner. Belle tried not to grimace in guilt as she waved back. That poor wardrobe had feigned sleep so often lately out of tact, to give the couple some semblance of privacy in their conversations, but Belle was sure this was an awkward situation for her anyway. After all, it wasn’t Madame’s fault that she could hardly squeeze through the doorway and leave this bedchamber.

She didn’t feel hungry for breakfast yet, so she decided to wander the quiet, dark castle corridors while she waited for sunrise.

* * *

On her way to the library, Belle paused: she heard stirring behind one particular door. She shook her head. Apparently her father had risen as early as she had.

She knocked softly. No response.

“Knock, knock,” she murmured. “It’s only me, Papa.”

There was no reply, but that didn’t surprise her. Maurice tended to get so absorbed in a task that he was entirely unaware of the outside world. She opened the door cautiously, trying not to startle him.

Belle had initially been nervous about bringing her father to stay at this castle, thinking he might be too afraid or uncomfortable in this place he’d once been a prisoner. But she needn’t have worried. Maurice had only been occupying this room for a few days, but he had already transformed it from a stately nobleman’s bedchamber into an impromptu workshop. The desk was littered with wrenches, cogs, wood shavings, and screws. Next to the washstand stood an odd contraption that looked like a barrel attached to a potter’s wheel.

Maurice himself was hunched over the dressing table, tinkering with scrap metal. The bed didn’t look slept in.

Belle tried to make her footsteps noisy on the creaky wood floors, but he still seemed unaware of her presence until she put a hand on his shoulder.

He jumped, dropping the piece of metal in his hand and clutching his heart.

“Good morning,” Belle said sheepishly. “Sorry. I did knock.”

Maurice took off his magnifying spectacles and peered up at her, looking faintly puzzled. She noticed then that his eyes were bloodshot. “Is it morning already?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “You haven’t been to bed yet, have you?”

“Um. Well.” It was Maurice’s turn to look sheepish. “You know how it is, when I’m in the middle of a project. I keep telling myself, five more minutes…”

Belle sighed. Lecturing him on taking better care of himself never did any good. And he had pointed out, on numerous occasions, that she’d spent sleepless nights finishing a book that she couldn’t put down, and so she couldn’t really argue.

“Is this a new invention?” She picked up the scrap metal he’d been working on. It looked like a series of interconnected levers. When she pressed one of them down, the other five opened—rather like fingers on a human hand, she realized.  “What’s this for?”

Maurice rubbed his red-rimmed eyes, as if finally noticing how exhausted he was.

“I noticed that a lot of the servants don’t really have _hands_. Because they’re, you know, mops and candlesticks and things like that. And that makes ordinary tasks a lot harder for them. But I was thinking, maybe—”

“You’d make some for them. That’s…that’s a wonderful idea, Papa.”

“You really think so? It’s not ridiculous?”

“Not at all. I think it’s sweet of you to want to help.”

He flushed a little under her praise, as he always did. “Well, still has a few kinks to work out,” he mumbled. “But it keeps me busy.”

Maurice had taken the loss of his log-chopping machine harder than he would admit. He waved it off whenever Belle brought it up, saying it perished for a good cause, but she knew it killed him to see all those months of hard work go up in flames.

“What’s this over here?” she asked, gesturing to the barrel.

“Oh, just another little contraption I came up with last night. Or maybe it was this morning. Anyway, it’s supposed to shorten the process of washing cups and plates—a sort of automatic dish-washer, if you will. Mrs. Potts was telling me how tedious a chore it is when you have so much china.”

He pulled off the lid and showed her the small pile of cups and saucers inside. “You just pour soap and water in the top, and spin it for a few minutes.”

“Does it work?”

“Only one way to find out.”

He gave the dishwasher a good spin. They both winced at the sound of breaking china.

“Don’t worry, they were all inanimate,” he assured her quickly.

Belle stifled a laugh. “You probably want to work on that one a little before showing it to Mrs. Potts.”

Maurice ran a hand through his hair, making it stand even more wildly on end. “I can’t seem to think what went wrong…”

“You’re just tired, Papa. A good night’s sleep, and you’ll be able to see it with fresh eyes.”

He sighed. “It would be easier if I had my tools from home instead of starting from scratch,” he muttered.  “It’s not like we have anything valuable, but there are some things of your mother’s I wish I could go back for.”

Belle’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Papa. But you know we can’t go back there right now. Not after what the village tried to do to you.”

It was almost amusing, trying to imagine what the townsfolk were saying now after fleeing the castle in terror. Would they admit they’d been attacked by furniture and dinnerware, or had they lied to their wives to avoid sounding insane?

Still, it disturbed Belle to remember how quickly her neighbors had turned from ordinary farmers and bakers into a single-minded mob. Were they too afraid of everything they’d seen, or would they come back to kill the Beast? At least they no longer had the mirror to help them find the castle again.

“Oh, I know.” Maurice smiled wryly. “You and I are probably wanted for murder at this point, too.”

She froze. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, Gaston rode off to this castle, and he never came back. What conclusions do you think our neighbors are going to come to?”

A chill ran through her. She hadn’t even spared Gaston another thought since his fall from the tower.

“Gaston’s death was an accident,” she protested, “and _his own fault_ , I might add. The Beast spared his life and gave him a chance to get away. If he’d taken it—”

“I know, sweetheart, I believe you,” Maurice soothed her. “But do you think anyone else will?”

Her silence was enough of an answer. The idea that the villagers might give her the benefit of the doubt was laughable.

“So, ah, speaking of which,” Maurice said, “how’s your patient?”

That coaxed a smile from her. “Oh, he’ll be fine. He complains a lot about it, but I think he secretly likes being fussed over.”

Maurice snorted. “I believe it.”

Belle’s throat felt suddenly dry and her palms started to sweat; she didn’t know how to broach this subject with her father. “Listen, about—about the Beast, I…”

“You love him,” Maurice finished gently. “I know, honey.”

She blinked a few times, astonished. His smile was unconcerned and understanding.

“How did—?”

“I may be old, Belle, but I’m not blind. A woman doesn’t stand up to a mob for someone she feels lukewarm about.”

She exhaled in a breathless laugh. “And you’re…you’re okay with that?”

He put his hand under her chin, the way he used to when she was a girl. “Belle. It’s not for me to tell you who to give your heart to. But if there’s one person living on this earth whose judgement I trust, it’s yours. I know you wouldn’t care this much about someone if they weren’t good.”

Belle blinked back tears. “Thank you, Papa,” she managed to choke, before throwing her arms around his shoulders.

She hadn’t realized how afraid she’d been of this conversation until it was over, and she felt every muscle going slack with relief. Of course, she wasn’t a child, and she didn’t need her father’s permission to do anything—but his approval mattered to her. She’d always been able to confide in him, and even when he didn’t understand her thoughts or feelings, he took her seriously. He was the only one that seemed proud of her, and not embarrassed by her eccentricities. She didn’t want to lose that.

Maurice hugged her tightly for a moment.

“Of course,” he added conversationally, “if he breaks your heart in any way, he’ll have _me_ to answer to. I hope he’s aware of that.”

A laugh escaped her. “I think you need some sleep now, Papa.”

* * *

It was still dark when she left her father’s room, so Belle decided to make one more stop before heading to the library.

She never expected to wander into the West Wing ever again, let alone on such a mundane errand, but here she was, staring that snarling gargoyle knocker in the face.

Even though she was expecting it this time, she still jumped at the sight of the cracked mirror in the corridor. Inside, the master suite was just as gloomy and dilapidated as she remembered, the torn bed hangings fluttering in the breeze from the broken window.

 _There’s no need to be so jittery_ , she reminded herself. _Even if the Beast minded you coming here, he’s not going to catch you. He’s fast asleep in your bed right now._

That first time, she’d snuck into the West Wing out of curiosity, but she’d also felt a little perverse pleasure in defying the Beast’s childish orders. If he was going to be so mysterious and frustratingly evasive, she would seek out answers herself.

She still couldn’t explain what had possessed her to try and touch that rose. Something about its mesmerizing glow had seemed to beckon her, to promise her answers to the castle’s secrets.

But then she’d learned that curiosity could have its consequences. Not just for herself: probing too deeply into old wounds and asking too many questions about the enchantment just seemed to cause the Beast and his servants pain. And so Belle had stopped asking.

Today, she was only here on a practical errand: fetching some fresh clothes for the Beast. The shirt he’d been wearing the night of the fight was too torn and bloodstained to be saved, so she’d come to hunt his armoire for another one.

She was tempted to ask one of the servants to do this for her, or at least to accompany her—but something stopped her.

Lately, the staff had all been rather…not _cold_ with her, exactly, but oddly distracted.

At first, she thought they were just worried about the Beast. But now, it was clear that he was going to be alright, and they were still acting strange. Even Lumiére, usually so fond and gracious, seemed to avoid her eyes.

She tried not to feel hurt by it, but she couldn’t help wondering if she’d done something wrong.

Deep in thought, she almost tripped on an overturned chair. Some of the broken furniture had been cleared away, but it seemed to be darker in here, and she could hardly see where she was going.

Then she realized why: before, it had been lit with a faint pink glow from that rose. There was nothing in the glass dome but a pile of ashes.

Belle couldn’t explain why she suddenly felt cold and empty looking at it. It had just been a flower, and flowers eventually wilt, don’t they? But there had been something special about it.

Looking back on that first night, she could almost hear the fear beneath the Beast’s fury.

_Do you realize what you could have done?_

_No—and I still don’t._

But now the rose had crumbled into nothing, and she didn’t know what that meant either. Just that it probably wasn’t good.

With a shiver, Belle strode over to the armoire, eager to leave.

* * *

When Belle returned to her room with a new book under her arm, sunlight was starting to creep through the curtains. The Beast was evidently feeling well enough to sit up in bed, albeit propped up on pillows.

All he said was, “Good morning,” but it somehow made her blush. Perhaps it was the way he seemed so genuinely pleased to see her, as if there was no other way he’d rather start his day.

“Feeling better than  yesterday?” she asked, tossing him the clean shirt.

He caught it with a grateful smile. “Much better. I think I can get out of this bed today.”

“Let’s not rush things.” She sat on the edge of the bed.

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” he assured her, sounding amused. “Is that a new book?”

She showed him the cover, which had an image of a tropical island on it. He squinted at the title for a moment.

“Another Shakespeare? This one isn’t going to be depressing, is it?”

She rolled her eyes. “I picked a comedy this time, I promise.”

He visibly relaxed. She understood: they had both had enough of tragedy to last them for a while. She leaned back so her head rested on his shoulder before opening up the book. He slid his arm around her waist.

She was still in her short-sleeved nightdress, so when goosebumps rose up on her arms, he noticed.

“I’m sorry, are you cold, Belle? Why don’t we sit by the fire?”

She protested that she was fine, really, because she didn’t know how to explain to him that they were a different kind of goosebumps, and so of course he thought she was just being polite. At his insistence, she helped him awkwardly limp over to the armchairs next to the hearth.

“I think you’ll like this one,” she said, smoothing the open pages on her lap. “It’s a comedy, but there’s a lot of adventure and romance in it too. There’s this father and daughter shipwrecked on an island, and then a storm brings another ship—”

“Don’t give too much away before we read it, I want to be surprised.”

“Oh, that’s just the first scene,” she assured him.

Whenever she read one of Shakespeare’s plays to him, she tried to describe the scene as it might have appeared onstage, even though she’d never seen one performed. He listened with rapt attention as she painted the opening scene for him: the roiling tempest, the ship close to capsizing, the chaos of the terrified sailors. But before she continued on, he objected to one detail.

“The noblemen are the ones staying calm and dignified?” he scoffed. “In real life, _they’d_ be the first ones to panic in the face of danger, not the experienced sailors.”

“Hush, it’s not that important to the story,” she chided, but she couldn’t suppress a grin.

She loved reading aloud to the Beast. She loved watching his expressions change from the corner of her eyes. Whenever he bit his lip and leaned forward in his seat, she knew he was dying of suspense; when he covered his mouth and looked away, she knew he was moved. Sometimes he clenched his fists on the arms of his chair if he was particularly frustrated or perturbed by a plot point.

Watching his reactions made her feel like she was experiencing the story all over again with new eyes.

Even now in this dim firelight, there was a softness in his eyes that even his heavy brow and glinting fangs couldn’t detract from. It was hard to imagine she had ever been frightened of him.

He seemed to notice her scrutiny at last, his eyes widening. “Aren’t you going to go on?”

She smiled, blushing a little. “Act One, Scene Two. This takes place on the island, in Prospero’s cell. It’s supposed to be a cave, but I imagine they’ve made it into a comfortable home over the years…”

As she described all the magical trinkets and treasures that bedecked Prospero’s cave in her mind’s eye, he slowly took her hand, and the warmth crept from her cheeks to her neck and the tips of her ears. But she pretended to ignore him, and started reading the scene, changing her voice depending on which character was speaking.

But then she came to the part about the spirit Ariel being imprisoned in a pine tree by the evil witch Sycorax for twelve years. The Beast suddenly slipped his hand out of hers and stared off into the hearth.

Belle’s voice faltered a little as she read. “Thou best know'st what torment I did find thee in; thy groans did make wolves howl and penetrate the breasts of ever angry bears: it was a torment to lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax could not again undo: it was mine art, when I arrived and heard thee, that made gape the pine and let thee out.”

Her throat suddenly felt too dry to continue. There was a distant look in the Beast’s gaze that told her she had struck a nerve somehow, that every word was causing him a little more grief.

“Belle, can we talk for a moment?” His voice was hoarse, but he tentatively took both her hands again—gently, as if preparing her for bad news.

“Of course.” She shut the book, trying not to look alarmed by his sudden seriousness.

“I need to tell you something. I put it off because I wanted to spare you. I didn’t see the point of causing you any more pain, but…” He hung his head. “I don’t think there should be any secrets between us.”

“It’s okay,” she told him with a weak smile. “I’m made of pretty tough stuff, you know.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I know you are.”

“Am I about to find out about the enchantment this castle is under?” she asked dryly.

He blinked a few times, looking startled.

“Nobody told me,” she assured him. “It was—well, it was kind of obvious. Your candlesticks talk.”

That, at least, got a reluctant smile from him. “Fair enough.”

“I’m listening,” she prodded gently, though her pulse was starting to pound in her ears. All the questions that had nagged at the back of her mind for months, all the times she had bit her tongue out of courtesy to her new friends, she was finally going to _understand_. He trusted her enough at last.

“I’m not good at telling stories like you are,” he said, “but I’ll try, anyway.”

The Beast addressed his tale to the flames crackling in the hearth.

“I suppose I should go back to the very beginning, for this to make sense. Twelve years ago—twelve years ago, my father died, and I was the sole heir to his estate. I was too young to rule, so a regent was appointed to govern the province until I was of age. Which meant I really had no responsibilities, just a lot of privileges I didn’t know what to do with.

“I was…I was a spoiled brat, which I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty imagining,” he added with a halfhearted wry smile. “The castle became sort of cut off from the outside world, and it was easy to forget that not everyone lived like we did.

“But then one night—on my eleventh birthday, actually—there was an unexpected visitor. She demanded to see me personally, so I thought she must be someone important. But she turned out to be an old beggar woman in a threadbare cloak, asking me to shelter her for the night. It was January, there was a terrible snowstorm that night—the wind sounded like a pack of wolves outside. She pleaded, saying she was likely to get lost in the woods and freeze to death before she came across another safe haven.”

Belle could vividly imagine the scene he painted with his words, but she couldn’t begin to guess why this story was important for her to hear.

“In return, she offered me a rose as a gift. She said, ‘It may not seem like much, to someone who lives in such finery, but it is precious to me. It’s all I have.’ But I…”

His voice broke. He took a few deep breaths before continuing.

“I refused to help her. I’m not proud of it, but—she had warts on her face, and mismatched eyes, and broken teeth, and dirty clothes, and she _frightened_ me. I’d never seen poverty and old age like that. She could tell that I was disgusted by her appearance, because she warned me that looks could be deceiving. ‘Beauty is found within,’ she told me.

“I told her to get out of my house. And then I knew I’d made a grave mistake. There was a flash of green light, almost blinding, and she changed right before my eyes. She was tall and young and fair—but somehow ageless. And there was no pity in her eyes.

“I’d angered an Enchantress. I think she was testing me, and I failed.” His voice was hollow. He gestured aimlessly at himself. “So she turned me into this, and punished the whole rest of the castle with me.”

Belle felt all the color had drained from her face.

 _So this was the reason why._ She had wondered, so many times, whether the Beast had been born this way, or if there was magic at work, as in the case of the servants. And now that the mystery was solved, she didn’t feel any better.

She managed to croak, “Surely—surely there must be some way to break the spell.”

“There was.”

“ _Was?_ ” she asked carefully.

The Beast seemed reluctant to go on. He stared at his hands for a moment, as if searching for words.

“Before she left, the Enchantress gave me the rose. She said it would bloom until I was twenty-one.”

“The one I almost touched?” Belle asked, wincing.

“That one,” he said with a nervous laugh. “She said, if I could learn to love another…and earn her love in return, before the last petal fell, then the spell would be broken. And if not, well…”

“But then, shouldn’t…shouldn’t you be…”

It took her a moment to put all the pieces together in her mind. The Beast _should_ be human again, because they loved each other. He wasn’t. In her mind she saw the rose, crumbled into ashes on its table.

_I was too late._

She stood abruptly and strode over to the window, so that she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye, trying to absorb all this information.

“Are you alright?” He seemed to be standing a pace behind her.

“Just give me a moment,” she said, keeping her voice steadier than she felt. “It’s just a lot to take in.”

He patiently waited, but Belle didn’t see how she could face him. She kept a hand over her mouth to silence her crying.

_If I’d just been a little bit quicker—a little less stubborn—everything could be different right now. How can you not hate the sight of me?_

“Belle, please say something.” There was a hint of desperation in his voice.

She tried to say something calm and nonchalant that wouldn’t alarm him, but the only sound that would come out was a sob. Her shoulders began to shake with the effort of keeping quiet.

Then there was a reassuring hand on the small of her back—well, a paw so large that it essentially covered her torso, but she knew his intent. For once, she shrank from his touch. She didn’t feel worthy of his affection right now.

“I could’ve helped you,” she said in a low voice. “I could’ve saved you, and I was too late.”

“Oh, Belle,” he sighed, gently spinning her around to face him. She didn’t have the energy to resist, but she could hardly bear to meet his eyes. When she did, she saw no resentment, no accusations, nothing but softness and concern. “You _have_ saved me, though.”

That brought on a fresh wave of tears, because he sounded so _grateful_ , as if she’d fulfilled all of his hopes instead of dashing them in accidental cruelty. He dabbed at her cheeks with a handkerchief. He brushed her hair out of her face and let his hand rest on the side of her neck. She trembled a little under his touch, despite the tears still clinging to her eyelashes.

“Wait,” she said, suddenly pushing him away, “why are _you_ the one comforting _me?_ It’s your life. Why aren’t you more upset?”

“I guess it hasn’t really sunk in yet,” he said, shrugging helplessly. “I’m sure I’ll feel more when it finally does. But at the moment—I’m just happy you love me back.”

His tone was incredulous with wonder, as if he still couldn’t quite believe she was here. Overcome with emotion, she pulled him close again, so that their foreheads touched. They rested that way for a while, just listening to each other breathe.

Belle’s stubbornness eventually crumbled, and she let him comfort her. She buried her face in his shoulder and tried to steady herself with deep breaths. Absently, he began to stroke her hair, his claws brushing against her scalp very gently. But when he seemed to realize what he was doing, he abruptly pulled away from her.

“No, don’t stop,” she murmured, “it feels nice.”

 _Please don’t be afraid to hold me_ , she pleaded silently. It hadn’t escaped her notice, how he always touched her as if she were made of glass—or as if one wrong move would make her run away.

A moment’s hesitation, and then he let her back into his arms again. The warmth of their embrace, the companionable silence, and the soft crackling of the fire all had a soothing influence on Belle. Her tears began to subside, even if grief and guilt were still gnawing at her heart. At least he didn’t hate her. Maybe things were going to be okay.

One question kept intruding on her thoughts, refusing to let her relax entirely.

_So what happens now?_


	4. Chapter 4

This was not part of the plan.

The Enchantress had been watching her young charge—for that was how she thought of the prince she had cursed—but not carefully enough. It wasn’t that she was uninterested in his progress. But her fair façade belied her age: the Enchantress was centuries old, and did not feel the passage of time as mortals do. It was easy to forget how ephemeral they were. She did check in with the monster-child, watching over him unseen every now and then. After all, the curse was not meant to be eternal. She wanted him to learn, to grow—she wanted to shape him and guide him, for she felt an inexplicable attachment to him.

She tried shaking these thoughts away. Long ago, she had traded away much of her humanity in exchange for power. She had the ability to shape the course of history—why should she yearn for something as comparatively trivial and small as motherhood? She had separated herself from humankind in order to do good, and had made personal sacrifices, rather like a nun renouncing worldly desires to serve a greater spiritual purpose. She had never had reason to doubt or regret her decision.

But for some reason, this boy had become important to her.

She supposed it was because she was responsible for his very existence. Twenty-one years ago, a noblewoman had summoned the Enchantress, begging for help.

_People are beginning to say I’m barren_ , the woman had said. _And my husband is starting to grow impatient for an heir. He is…not a reasonable man. Please. I’ve tried everything, and I don’t know what he will do if I cannot have a child._

The Enchantress had coolly studied the woman’s demeanor—caught the fear in her eyes, the desperation in her voice. Some long-dormant twinge of empathy stirred deep within her.

_Have courage. Take a few drops of this potion every night, and you will have your son within the twelvemonth._

It was a simple bit of magic, a mere parlor trick compared to what the Enchantress was capable of. The lady, in her gratitude, offered every fabulous jewel and fine perfume she owned as payment—but the Enchantress had scoffed. She had no use for silly human trinkets.

_Then what do you ask for, in return for this great gift?_

The Enchantress had considered deeply. Sometimes she could hardly recall what it had felt like to be vulnerable and human—like a distant dream she had pushed out of her mind—but at this moment, it was coming back to her clearly enough. Perhaps age and solitude were turning her brain soft.

_Cherish him. Raise him well. That is all that I ask._

But the noblewoman hadn’t kept her promise. When the Enchantress returned, years later, to test the character of the child she had helped create, she found a boy that was self-centered and driven by anger. No doubt he would grow into another cruel, despotic narcissist just like his father.

The realization made the Enchantress’s blood boil. And so she had unleashed the most terrible curse in her arsenal.

In hindsight, she justified it to herself as a harsh but necessary lesson for the boy—a decision made with his welfare in mind, even if it didn’t seem that way. She could bear to play the role of the villain in his life’s story, if that meant she could shape him into a more heroic protagonist through these trials. Plenty of people needed opposition in order to grow stronger.

But cursing the servants…that choice had always gnawed at her conscience.

She had done it because the prince needed allies, if he was to succeed. She had to be sure they wouldn’t abandon him. It was a necessity—but it wasn’t fair, and she knew that.

The Enchantress often used her magic for poetic justice, but it did not sit right with her, unleashing it upon innocents. She had always comforted herself with the thought that it wouldn’t be forever: the prince would break the spell and set them all free.

And just in case, she had built a failsafe into the curse, so that if the prince died, the servants would all become human that very moment.

She had only ever seen those two outcomes for his story. Tragedy or comedy. Death or marriage. Just like the stories from that Shakespeare the girl loved so much.

Damn that stubborn peasant girl for finding a _third_ option. It almost made the Enchantress laugh, even as it frustrated her—after all, she had chosen Belle for her determination, for her ability to see what others couldn’t, so how could she complain that those very traits had disrupted her plans?

The Enchantress watched through her scrying-mirror as the girl confessed her love too late. It seemed that would be the end—regrettable, but the Enchantress had foreseen this possibility. But then the girl had seemed to find her lover’s heart still beating, had thrown aside her grief and flown into action. She tore off her traveling cloak and used it to put pressure on the wound, while she called to the servants for aid.

In chagrin and disbelief, the Enchantress watched as the blasted girl rewrote their destiny through sheer willpower.

_How did I not foresee this possibility? How did I not plan for this?_

And more importantly, what to do now?

 

 

* * *

 

Well, now the whole truth was out. It was a relief, and yet it wasn’t.

The Beast felt so many conflicting emotions that they seemed all snarled up together like a loose thread.

On the one hand, it was awful to see Belle so heartbroken. The last time he’d seen her cry like this, he had also been the cause, though in a different way. He tried not to remember her shivering frame, kneeling on the cold stone dungeon floor, her voice both hopeless and accusatory as she sobbed, _You didn’t let me say goodbye!_ Just thinking of the night they met filled him with shame.

And now here she was, mere months later, crying _for_ him, rather than _because_ of him.

That led him to another curious, contradictory thought. He recalled the horrified gasp, the way she drew back into the shadows when she first saw his monstrous form, so he knew she wasn’t oblivious to it. So when had it stopped mattering?

At this moment, she was curled up beside him in the same armchair, practically sitting in his lap, her face buried in his mane. He had been stroking her hair carefully for some moments, terrified of making a wrong move, but filled with wonder—not only did she allow this physical contact, she seemed to actively seek it out for comfort.

They were quiet for a long time, and he heard her breathing gradually deepen. He hoped she was drifting off for a few moments at least. Judging by the dark shadows under her eyes, she had lost a great deal of sleep worrying about him. Her grip on his shirt relaxed, and he then noticed there was still blood lodged under her fingernails.

There was all the tangible proof of her love that he could ever need: the way she had toiled to keep him alive. He might not understand what value she could possibly see in him, but he trusted her word. She loved him back, as illogical as it sounded.

He tried to shift her so she could rest more comfortably, but it wakened her immediately.

“Why don’t you go back to sleep for a little while, Belle? You must be exhausted.”

She shook her head as she stretched. “It’s almost nine o’clock. I’ve got things to do.”

“Oh really? Like what?”

“For one thing, your bandages need to be changed today.”

“I’m sure that can wait.”

“You don’t want an infection, do you? That’ll hurt a lot worse. And it would be harder for one of the servants to—”

She blanched. “The servants,” she repeated. He could see it dawning on her, belatedly, that they too were stuck in their cursed forms.

He wasn’t even sure how to console her about this. He had resolved to try and accept his Beastly form for her sake, and maybe he could learn to live with it—maybe one day he wouldn’t hate it as much, if she was alongside him. But it was hard to be as philosophical about the poor staff.

“I know. I keep thinking about that, too,” he admitted in a low voice. “I brought this on myself, but they didn’t do anything wrong.”

She bit her lip, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. “Have you tried contacting the Enchantress? Maybe she would show mercy if we asked. Or maybe there’s something we can give her in exchange for breaking the spell. After all, if she supposedly wanted you to learn something from the curse, surely she would see how much you’ve grown as a person. That’s got to make a difference, right?”

He wondered what his expression betrayed, because her enthusiasm died looking at it. All he knew was that his stomach twisted into knots and his knees trembled at the thought of encountering the Enchantress ever again. It didn’t matter that he was a hulking eight-foot-tall monstrosity—every time his nightmares were filled with bursts of green magic smoke and piercing, merciless emerald eyes, he was reduced to a frightened eleven year old cowering in her shadow.

If Belle suspected how much the idea alarmed him, she did not voice it. “No, I suppose that might do more harm than good. Though I’d love to tell that woman exactly what I think of her, given the chance.”

There was an unexpected glint of anger in her lovely eyes.

“What do you mean?” he asked, bemused.

She sat up straighter, nostrils flared in indignation. “Well, what kind of person curses an entire castle full of people who have never done anything to her? Or a child whose only crime was that he acted like one?”

The Beast winced. “To be fair, I was a bit of a brat.”

“I believe it, but that’s hardly a capital crime. Why should you pay for that for the rest of your life?”

Belle’s indignation on their behalf warmed his heart. But still, he worried.

“I know you can handle yourself, but _please_ don’t go offending the Enchantress,” he begged. “She can’t really do anything worse to us, but she could still do something to you.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Don’t worry, I won’t do anything foolish,” she grumbled. “It’s just _tempting_ , that’s all.”

He snorted. If the danger weren’t so real, he would enjoy seeing her scold the Enchantress for her unfairness…

“Alright, enough stalling,” Belle said, suddenly brisk. “Time to change those bandages.”

He couldn’t suppress a groan.

 “Why is it that you can literally get stabbed in the back, and you won’t complain about the pain, but the slightest discomfort afterward…” She rolled her eyes as she started unwinding a thin roll of linen on her bedside table. But her amused tone was more fond than outright mocking.

“Alright, alright,” he grumbled, limping over toward the bed. “You win.”

Her smile grew more pronounced. “Could you lie on your right side, please? Then I can get to the ones on your shoulder too.”

It took him a moment to realize she was referring to the arrow wounds. “Hmm. Forgot about those.”

He was facing away from her, but he could hear a soft chuckle under the splashing of water as she washed her hands in a basin.

“I’m going to start with the knife wound, because it’s the worst. I might need to clean it again, if it’s still bleeding. There might be some pus to drain, too. I’m just warning you, this part will probably sting.”

He nodded mutely and grabbed onto one of her pillows to bury his claws in. If the pain made him twitch or flinch, the last thing he wanted was to accidentally scratch her.

She lifted up his shirt and began to carefully peel away layers of linen bandages at the small of his back. He kept his teeth gritted together. He didn’t understand how she could stay so steady and businesslike during such a revolting task, but he wasn’t going to act like a coward in front of her. Not this time.

The first touch of the washcloth against his scar did sting, as she had warned. He managed not to move too much.

“Sorry, darling,” she murmured.

“Don’t be. I know it has to be done.”

The burning feeling did subside after a moment, from the cool water and the gentleness of her touch. She spoke soothingly to distract him.

“Maybe when you’re feeling strong enough, we can take a walk through the gardens. I bet some fresh air would do us both good. It snowed again last night, did you notice?”

“No, I didn’t.” His voice sounded a little strangled, but he tried to keep it steady. “Does this mean you’re feeling ready for a rematch? So soon after your crushing defeat?”

“Oh, _I’m_ the one who was defeated? Tell me again whose snowball fell in his own face?”

Their laughter shook the bed underneath him, until another sting of pain made him hiss.

“Sorry. I’m just putting some salve on it, it’ll help.”

He nodded, his jaw tight.

She kept her tone light and conversational. “It looks better than I was expecting. It is definitely going to leave a scar, though. The blade was jagged, so it was…kind of hard to stitch up properly. Still, it’s finally starting to close. I think the stitches can come out next week.”

To his surprise, he felt her free hand stroke his ear once softly. “You’re doing really well,” she encouraged. “The worst part is over now, I promise. Now I’m just going to work on those arrow wounds, if you feel ready.”

This was certainly a far cry from the first time they’d been in this situation. He wondered, with some amusement, whether she was thinking of that night, too.

_Strange to think, that night was probably when I started to fall for you_ , he thought. She’d been so…unafraid and unwilling to budge. Her tiny frame next to his enormous, monstrous one had seemed unimportant when her unflinching glare made him feel abashed.

_Well, you should learn to control your temper._ Her words still rang in his ears even now. She had refused to bend to his will or be intimidated by his anger, as the servants might have done. She had spoken to him like a person—not a person she particularly liked, but not a monster either. A person. Someone she expected to be capable of doing better.

And from that point on, he’d craved her good opinion. He hadn’t understood why, at the time, but in hindsight it was so obvious.

“Belle, have I—have I ever told you how much I admire you? You’ve got to be the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

He probably couldn’t have said it so bluntly if he had been looking in her eyes, but it was easier as he studied the embroidery on the pillows in front of him.

She laughed. “Me?”

“I’m being serious.”

She was quiet for a moment as she pulled aside the neckline of his shirt to examine the wounds on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said finally. She sounded genuinely affected by his praise. “I…I didn’t feel very brave when I almost lost you. So let’s not make a habit of this, okay?”

“Deal.”

“I don’t believe this,” she said suddenly, sounding amazed. “The arrow wounds are almost completely closed up.”

“I told you, I’m pretty hard to kill.”

“Thank heaven.” She hesitated, smoothing a fresh bandage over the nearly-healed wounds. “Did he…say anything to you? Gaston, I mean.”

The Beast suddenly felt cold inside. The hunter’s proud, handsome face loomed in his memory, twisted into a contemptuous smile.

“He said, ‘What’s the matter, Beast? Too kind and gentle to fight back?’ I know he was just trying to goad me, but I’m not sure what he meant. It was like a private joke with himself.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “That was…that was meant as a jab at me. He was using my words to mock you. Of course Gaston would have to twist that into a bad thing.”

Understanding dawned on him. He tried to turn his head slightly to see her face, but she was too far behind him.

“Did you really say that about me?” An incredulous grin spread across his face. He didn’t care how ridiculous he probably looked.

_She called me kind and gentle? In front of other people?_

“Well, yes.” Her tone seemed to imply that this should be obvious. “I tried to make them understand. The villagers, they…they took one look at you in the mirror and…I guess I was naïve to think they would listen.”

The Beast didn’t spare the angry mob much thought, let alone any animosity. Torches and pitchforks and angry peasants—it was exactly the way he expected other people to respond to him. He was too captivated by Belle’s praise to even care what anyone else thought.

But Belle’s thoughts must have been racing ahead elsewhere. “I just hope they don’t come back.”

At this, the Beast dragged himself into a sitting position so that he could look her in the eye. “Belle, please don’t worry about that,” he said firmly. “You said it yourself: we’re together now. Everything’s going to be fine.”

She raised an eyebrow at his certainty. “Alright, who are you and what have you done with my Beast?” she teased. “I’ve never seen you so optimistic before.”

He laughed along with her, even as a thrill went through him at being referred to as _hers_ in some way, even facetiously.

“I’m not _always_ melancholy.”

“Whatever you say, darling.”

He froze. Her casual endearment took him aback. She immediately blushed scarlet, seeming to realize what had astonished him so.

“What?” she protested. “I have to call you something, and I am not calling you _Beast_ for the rest of our lives. That’s just silly.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound would come out. It was time to make a decision, though his heart pounded at the thought.

“Adam,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse, as if the name had worn out from lack of use.

She frowned, puzzled.

“My name is—was—Adam,” he confessed. “I stopped using it. I asked the servants never to mention it. I guess I just felt…unworthy of it. But…” He looked down at his hands. “You can use it, if you want.”

“ _Adam_.”

He rather liked the way her lips formed the syllables. It sounded so much more melodious coming from her. He had worried that it would be jarring, returning to that old name, like trying to fit into the clothes he’d worn as a human. Like trying to bring back the past. But in Belle’s sweet voice, it sounded new.

He braced himself for her annoyance—after all, they had known each other for months, and he had refused to divulge his Christian name until _now_ , and even allowed her to believe he had forgotten it entirely—but instead, her lips quirked into a sad smile.

“It doesn’t matter who you were before, or who you could have been. I love who you are now…Adam.”

**Author's Note:**

> I figured I might as well cross-post this story from ff.net, as some people prefer this site's tagging system and whatnot.
> 
> I also want to clarify that this story is strictly '91 'verse (since the servants are just stuck as enchanted objects instead of freezing to lifeless ones, like in the live action), but there are a couple minor details that are obviously inspired the remake. For example, I'll refer to the wardrobe lady as Madame Garderobe, since they never actually mention her name in the animated version, but sadly no Cadenza in this universe. I was so tempted to include him, because I thought they were a charming pair of characters, but smooshing the two continuities together would just get too confusing for me and the readers.
> 
> I hope that makes sense...


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